Nobody Roots For Goliath
by APat96
Summary: A different take on the classic epic of David and Goliath, just a short story that I wrote for English class. R R


** "Nobody Roots for Goliath"**

-Wilt Chamberlain

Smoke pours into the sky, a wafting cloud of gray against the pale pink that is the morning. In the distance, a horn sounds, my call to wake and line up. Like lightning; I am there in a flash, ready to fight. My weapons are in their sheaths, and my ears eagerly await an order. Other soldiers crowd into a line beside me, gawking at me with awe and fear; I flinch at their reaction.

They maintain a wide berth around me for safety, and cower, as if I might lash out and strike them at any moment. I may be tall, but I am still a human. They make me feel as if I'm some sort of _monster_, when, in truth, we are the same! I've come here to win this war, and—and…well, I'll make sure that's what happens! "_Gia_nt," they call me. "_Freak_." If only they could see that I am no different than they are.

You know, I'm not very wise, like the men that plan everything—all the things that compose a war; a battle. I don't have much…thought. Who needs meaningless thoughts during wartime? Not me.

Perhaps all you need is to know to charge, duck, jab and taunt. I'm still alive, aren't I? Lots of the guys you see out here; they spend too much time planning our win over that _Israel._ Just saying that name makes me physically ill. I'm not sure why…just that us Philistines are supposed to hate 'em and kill them for more land. I'm not sure of the specifics.

Every day, we charge, taunt, jab, and kill. That rhythm's got itself stuck in my head, like some twisted prayer. _Charge. Taunt. Jab. Kill. _Repeat. It's sick, you know, but almost like some chore, or something; it _has_ to be done.

Our general lines us up, pacing back and forth in front of us and shouting out words to get us riled up. Suddenly, I see the silver glare of his armor stop in front of me.

"Goliath!" He screams, "You're going to be leading this, got it?"

"Yes." I answer, hesitantly.

"Yes, what?" He prods back at me.

"Yes sir!"

"Good. Now, men, you're going to get out there and kill those_ Hebrews_; claim that land!"

A pit forms in my stomach, per usual. It's not that I'm afraid of, you know, _dying_, and all…I mean dying would mean that I did what I was supposed to, right? I just—I don't know—don't like to kill people; it doesn't matter who they are. That's a silly thought, though. I just have to keep reminding myself that I _have_ to. I just have to do what my leader tells me to! Still…they die just like us—pain and agony.

Shaking my head like a wet dog, I block these thoughts out of my head, waiting for that magic word that will shoot me forward.

"Charge!" Comes the command, and we're off!

I soar through the crowds of people, jabbing and slashing, marring the soil with blood. Such a terrible scene…and, yet, those crimson rivers are so horribly brilliant in both color and meaning. My knife goes to work on one Israelite while my sword hacks up another.

Noises bottom out, and I lose myself in the battle, consciousness be damned. My eyes finally open, clear as day, and I see blood and mangled corpses littering the field. My comrades have retreated, the Israelites having followed a similar suit, and I stand, alone, once more. Roaring, I call out for a Hebrew who dares to fight me.

A figure comes staggering into the battlefield, short, young, and with the weight of his armor dragging him down. His lanky figure stands before me, unarmed. I realize now how I must look to him, smeared with blood, tall, panting for breath. His eyes paint a different picture than his stance; he is brave, willing to fight me, yet his knees shake. Something, a feeling, fills me, and I turn my head around, to seek orders from my comrades. They cheer, bellowing for me to finish this child off. I give them a false look of confidence, turning back around. This is no warrior, only a child! I…_have_ to kill him. My comrades are relying on me…. He—he's just a _child_, though.

This boy is yielding a stick and sling, child's weapons. This will be over quickly, I remind myself. A simple repetition is drawn to mind: _Taunt._ I suck in a breath, prepared to hurl whatever I can at this scrawny child.

"Am I a dog, that you come to me with sticks?" I call out to him, earning roaring applause from my comrades. "Come to me, and I will give your flesh to the birds of the air and to the beasts of the field." More applause.

Unfazed by my words, the child inches forward, launching into a speech about how he has this special _God_ on his side. He speaks of my punishment, how _he _will be feeding _me _to the beasts! How his _God_ will deliver justice. He finishes it all the words: "…the Lord saves not with sword and spear; for the battle is Lord's and he will give you into our hand."

All sympathy for this adolescent is diminished with these words. Who is he to claim to be above me? Have I not been separated and gawked at enough? I can't begin to fathom a God who could be so cruel to me. The nerve he has trying to convince me otherwise! Enraged, I charge forward, sword held high.

As I sprint forward, my vision tinted red with anger, a pain erupts in my forehead. I fall to the ground in agony, and it is in this moment I realize; dying isn't as easy as I had thought. The blackness comes first, followed by the ultimate pain of having your skull crushed by a rock. The agony, as your thoughts fade into the searing, white-hot whole of you mind. Blood clouds your face, mingling with tears.

I open an eye, gasping for air as my hands crowd my face. My head burns with a searing pain, and I struggle to form words. Suddenly, the boy is over me, blocking the sun from my vision. A begging hand is reached upwards, beseeching this child for mercy. The boy grasps my own weapon tightly in his hand, scowling at me before lifting the blade high above his head and bringing it down upon my neck.

Any fool who thinks dying is hard has got it all wrong; dying is _easy_. It's life, you know, that's the real challenge. Dying is constant, certain, obtainable. Life is, well, the opposite…full of worry and surprise. Fortunately, though, when you die, your sins perish with you, and the world gets on with whatever it was doing. Everything stays the same; maybe even gets a little bit better. Your life, however, dims, until, like the blood in the soil, you fade to black.


End file.
